


Nymphet Transcended

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Addiction, Amorality, Blackmail, Child Neglect, Classical References, Conditioning, Daddy Issues, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Multi, Other, Parallels, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Psychological Torture, Rape, Slurs, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People crave what they cannot have. What they were always deprived of. What they always yearned for. Reached towards. For that reason above all others, Hoyt Volker desired hegemony, ascendancy and jurisdiction in all things. A trait that followed him throughout life like a shadow of impending doom. A trait that proved his addiction and eventual undoing. Consuming too much of the same aphrodisiac can prove venomous, after all. Or so they say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nymphet Transcended

**_-“A cesspool full of rotting monsters behind his slow, boyish smile.” -_**  
―  **Vladimir Nabokov** ,  **Lolita**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He was a weak little thing once – true.  
All skin and bone and small, swollen, scrapped knees.  
Bruised knuckles – baby fists, a tiny head on an even tinier body.  
He was well-fed, but he refused to grow, to develop, to become strong.  
Faulty genetics, they said – and by “they”, Hoyt mostly counted his father.  
There was no cure for bad blood – it could not be washed out, it could not be changed.  
And of course, it was hard to meet up to the image of a purebred European mogul.  
A blonde, slender Dutch Boer with cheekbones sharp enough to cut a man.  
Cobus Volker proudly stood nearly six feet and whole seven inches tall.  
Hoyt, even in later years, barely bore five feet and a measly eight.  
Only thing he ever inherited from his father were the eyes.  
That, and a temper just as foul and vile to boot.

 

 

 

 

-Perhaps, even – his ingrained penchant for the various objects of lust papa’s various prostitution rings had to offer and the character of determined debaucher right from the beginning – Hoyt was, as constantly and mercilessly reminded, a son of a goddamn street strumpet, in the literal sense of the way, no metaphors included, the offsprings of a marred, used up, colored prostitute and a seasoned, drugged-up sex-worker Mr. Volker claimed as exclusively his own, being unwilling to share her with a loud, rowdy set of drunkards, ruffians and hooligans, authoritative and selfish as he was – thus, in a sense, making the mixed mutt of an illicit affair a child-whore himself. In a sense? What sense? Every sense. Some children would realize they’ve been abused much later in life – if ever – their own brains serving as a catalyst there to block the memory of trauma and replace it with a deepening, hollow blank void of all sentiment, all feeling and all recollection of past events. Dissociation from reality. Blocking out unwanted cluster. Hoyt never got rid of anything.

 

 

 

A man would take it.  
A boss would take it.

 

 

 

_-“You’re no better then her, boy! You’re a hoer yourself, dyed-in-the-bone! Through and through! Mother like son! Goddamn kaffirs! The both of you!”-_

 

 

 

 

Cobus hissed when he unbuckled his leather belt and began to trash it over the boy’s bleeding, botched-up back bearing the reddish, paling marks of past whippings, his thick, heavy accent reminiscent of his roots stretching all the way back to the Neatherlands – a routinely thing, commonplace, everyday, casual, nearly habitual – he’d get a beating over everything, anything and nothing, almost as revenge for something obscure and undisclosed he couldn’t entirely fathom and often times, the over-familiar belt would never end up being placed back to it’s proper place, pinned beneath the sharp pin of Volker’s ornament, decorative clasp. It would remain discarded on the chair. On the floor. On the bedside – when the patriarch of so many impoverished, downtrodden, broken lives tucked in his son in his own, distinctive manner. Down of his belly, legs-forced apart, face pushed against the squeaking mattress and a lullaby for a good night and sweet-dreams. Rape. Incest. Child abuse. Molestation. Was there any use for fanciful terms? Milder synonyms to cover up all the cluster? The disaster?

 

 

 

Hoyt didn’t believe in softening up the truth, not even then.  
Except, when he did – a hypocrite just like his dada.  
He concealed a dusty copy of Nabokov’s Lolita.  
A banned book, out in South Africa.  
The regime didn’t tolerate filth.  
Re-reading the old passages.  
At night, alone.  
Learning them by heart.  
Getting lost in the lie of Humbert’s narration.  
Part of him believing that this is what love genuinely was.  
Frightening himself when he realized he was less of a Dolores Haze.  
Less of a tiny, sun-kissed, anger-fueled green-eyed little boy with too many scars.  
Less of a Dolores Haze and more like her lecherous foster-father with each passing year.

 

 

 

_-“Look at you – crying like a bloody baby! Suck it up! You’re old enough to know better! I don’t want to hear it! Stop embarrassing yourself! Be good for daddy! Take it all in! All of it! That’s it!”-_

 

 

 

Another horrendous eternity of heaving, thrusting and panting filled with swearing, spitting and kicking, Cobus never made any attempts to prepare him for each and every unsolicited, unwanted physical onslaught after the compound’s servants, caretakers and black maids have all retired to their rest, pretending to see no evil, know no evil and hear no evil – in layman terms, he simply gave no fuck if the small, thin, underdeveloped body beneath him would get hurt, if he could endure it, if he could bear it, if he would survive it. The point was moot nowadays – he considered himself a discipliner of a misbehaving, undeserving mutt living off his charity and tarnishing his pure-bred name solely by existing, not a good Biblical Samaritan. Cobus Volker was accustomed to whores. He saw a whore in everyone – even his own estranged flesh and blood – the same Hoyt was accustomed to the lack of control. The lack of power. The lack of having the upper-hand. So much so that he hated the state of being depraved of authority more then the indignant, sinful predicament of twisted, wretched fatherly affections deemed repulsive by the law’s of mother nature herself. By the laws of man and God alike.

 

 

 

Getting yourself fucked was one thing.  
Being a helpless victim, another entirely.

 

 

 

 

Hoyt must have been merely fifteen when he finally flipped Cobus over, trapping an aging, work-drained body beneath himself fresh, young and full of energy as he was, riding the old man into submission rough, hard and without any postponing, the very way he’s been used to ever since time immemorial the very night before he had planned you squeeze his accursed life dry in whichever way he could – a tactile movement he’s been forging in his mind between nightly visitations like a well-tempered steel for as long as he could possibly remember. It wasn’t about loathing. The fact the that he detested an abuser as much as a rite of passage. Something he personally devised. Set as an obstacle ripe for crossing. More like, establishing dominance, proving to himself that he did in fact, hold all the cards. Cards? Papa taught him to play poker rather well, he dared say, a thug’s shady pastime – and recently, Hoyt started winning in rounds, much to Cobus’ goddamn irritation. The student outmatching the master – an old cliché – older then time itself, and junior took this as a direct sign. The old man had to go. The drunken, wrinkled, perverse goat was ready for the slaughter. He would enjoy it, as much as he was enjoying fucking him right now. Finally, on top. After all these years.

 

 

 

 

Squeezing the thinning tendrils of his father’s exposed throat.  
Imagining what it would be like to choke him on spot.  
Griding up against him a crescendo of punches.  
Cutting off the passage of his breathing.  
Bouncing up and down.  
Speedily, savagely.  
No sympathy for the devil.  
Disregarding the slashes his nails created.  
Smiling at the sight of blood on his daddy’s neck.  
Digging in even harder, until he could hear the bastard shriek.  
Struggle to push the vicious, furious mutt rutting him off of himself.  
His cock flaccid from the sudden wave of violence, coated in it’s own cum.

 

 

 

And it felt good.  
It felt like power.  
All-consuming.  
Ever-so sweet.  
Maddening.

 

 

 

 

Cobus Volker was found dead the next day.  
Murdered – ran through with his own pickaxe.  
At the bottom of a mining shaft – torn, broken, deformed.

 

 

 

 

The female of a specie was always considered deadlier then the male, with spiders, insects, vipers – a thing he browsed up in an tattered, attic encyclopedia back when he was younger - but Hoyt Volker was a living, breathing anomaly, proving it when, nearly a decade later, upon meeting the burly, tattooed, seasoned war-veteran looking for well-payed work in his own circle and private employers who offer fine money for his service, insisting on being referred to only as _“Buck”_ as opposed to his real name which he bitterly brushed off as distasteful, humiliating and perfect bait for mockery, their first line of establishing a professional relationship, a job interview, if one will, included getting the much bigger, stronger Aussie down on his knees and pushing a cock into his mouth in front of the desk of Hoyt’s makeshift office – something met with not much resistance, almost leaving Hoyt desiring some struggle, disinterestedness or the lack of will from his new, fresh henchman-to-be as he fucked his mouth, being gleeful to admit, that whole-while, he was fucking his father’s in thought – all too willing to address his mercenary in the making as Bambi, purely because he knew it would be met with embarrassment, hatred and rebuff – all without the ability to do anything about it as the tall, buff Australian was loudly, greedily gagging on his spit, bodily fluids and saliva. Power. That was power. Taking power from others.

 

 

 

Imagining Cobus in the meantime was solely an appetizer.

It turned him on - he had to admit to himself, at least.

Picturing the fair-haired Dutchman pounded into nothing.

Got his blood boiling, his legs stiffening, breath hitching.

 

 

 

 

When they cleared the untouched, unfamiliar jungle roads - their knives, blades, chainsaws and machetes gleaming beneath the recoiled dash of a purging, biting summer sun, nestled their boats on the unclaimed shoreline of the Pacific Archipelago - the unrecorded, unmarked botch of land on the map found by a company of men fancying themselves pirates, explorers, colonialists, conquistadors and sea-buccaneers when they were so, so much worse - unloaded their weapons and slashed through the thick, overgrown, wild canopy of bushes, grass and trees – the self-imposed Mowgli came to him in the pitch blackness of the night after innumerable times of doings so before, already addicted to drugs. Already desperate. Already weak. Already dazed. Already slurring his words. Already covered in cold sweat. Already willing to do anything for a quick, easy round of China White. Already putting a special emphasize on the word _“anything”_ like the addicted, shivering whore that he was. Only seventeen of age, already knee deep in his own feces. How very wonderful. How very quaint. How beautiful. He didn’t even need to tame an animal anymore. Chemicals did that for him.

 

 

 

 

_-“What would be ready to do for this again? Anything? Come to papa and show him. Nice and slow, kid. Earn it. Work it off for me.”-_

 

 

 

Hoyt prompted a response from Vaas.  
Playfully, smugly, mischievously, wickedly.  
Dangling a plastic bag filled with powder in front of his nose.  
Coaxing, bribing his very own Lolita with a round of her favorite candy.  
Watching the native mutt as he crawled towards his legs on all four.  
Already antiquated with the routine, the requirements.  
With how Daddy Volker truly liked it.  
On all fours, sprawled out.  
So obedient.

 

 

 

He had truly became Cobus Volker.  
The caricature of Humbert Humbert.  
Of every dirty asshole who ever lived.

 

 

 

The power on his tongue stronger then liquor.  
Intoxicating him, dizzying him, causing a sugar-high.  
Honeyed, hot and sickeningly saccharine in his mouth.  
Sticky as he pounded ever harder into boy’s jaw.  
Not stopping even when he nearly vomited.  
Disregarding protests and continuing.  
At a pace he set, deemed fit.

 

 

 

 

Goddamn.

How much he loved being in charge.

How good it felt to be the motherfucking Boss.


End file.
